The Old Guard
by Ronin201
Summary: In the midst of the 1940s, the world of Strangereal is embroiled in a global war. In the skies, both sides wrestle for the ultimate goal: air supremacy. Follow pilots from both sides as they take to the skies of yesteryear. Collection of short stories with OCs. Owners of materials within retain their respective rights.
1. Steady Baby

_**A/N: New stories will appear here infrequently, based on new ideas I get and the motivation to translate them to written form.**_

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 _Steady Baby_

 _September 7, 1944_

 _Somewhere Over The South Pacific_

It was a warm, blue sky all around, with only the scattered white clouds to break up the scenery. For Lieutenant Chase Bradford, it was the kind of view that kept up his hobby of drawing. He'd sit up in the sky, memorizing each detail from the cockpit of his F6F Hellcat, and then translate it to his pad and make it immortal. He gently turned the stick to the left and looked down at his charts. According to them and his compass, he and his three wingmen were about 25 Miles South of the Kashami Atoll, which was the northernmost point of the Songolian Empire. The atoll was nothing to worry about; its population had always been, at most a flock of seagulls. Occasionally Songol ships used it as a place to stop, but not with the Osean Navy so close. His worry was the island of Kaimon ten miles away from that. "Tail" Bradford keyed his radio and cleared his throat.

"Hawk Leader, Hawk Leader to flight. Anyone see anything?' He asked.

"No Lead, not a thing." his wingman Archie Lee reported.

"Hawk Three hasn't spotted anything, Lead." Pounder Cakes chimed in.

"Hawk Four is also negative on any visuals, Hawk Lead." Bart Jonesy said, sounding as disappointed as the rest of the flight. Chase grimaced and looked to his east.

"Talon Leader, this is Hawk Leader, nothing to report in our sector...you got anything, Handles?" He asked.

"Negative Tail, not a thing." Handles Barr replied.

There weren't even any ships, Osean or Songol. The task force, steadily steaming towards the southern Shimoji Islands, was taking things very carefully in the face of increasing suicide attacks. There was also the matter of the Songols' last three carriers and their much-touted battleship, the _Yamato_. They weren't in this part of the ocean, though. Chase wasn't paid to sink battleships and carriers, but he reckoned they were trying to position themselves to meet the Osean force as soon as possible when they made an earnest drive in towards the islands. At the edge of his vision, he could see the atol starting to appear like an apparition. It was a blazing white, with one body surrounded by several others. Chase appraised it a second and wondered if this shot would be a good one to memorize and draw. Before they went back to the carrier, he figured he'd make another pass.

Chase looked forward again and then sat up as high as he could in his cockpit. Down below he still saw nothing but ocean. A few shadows from the clouds suggested they might be fighters, but after a second of scrutinizing he found they were just shadows. Chase sat back and bit his lower lip. The Songolians weren't biting, and that had him worried. Even as they fell back towards their easternmost territories, the Shimoji Islands, they had always maintained a die-hard attitude. They called it "Bushido" and they'd lived it. They'd even morphed it into a new, fanatical devotion of ramming themselves into Osean warships. Patrols like Chase and Handle's were now more than about destroying the Songol war machine; now it was about denying the Songols fulfillment at the coast of Osean lives.

It was exactly that kind of thing that had Chase on edge. He started checking more frequently, and ordered his flight to split into twos. Pounder and Jonesy went low while he and Archie stayed high. They turned towards the atoll, hoping to maybe draw someone's attention. Chase sighed and for a minute wished he was back with Michelle. Like any guy with someone waiting at home his thoughts were all too easily drawn towards her. Leave it to a pilot and a sailor to start having dirty thoughts in the cockpit. Maybe that's why it was called that. Chase, ever the mature one, turned a laugh into a bad elephant impersonation. He couldn't stop the second push and gave in for a minute. No doubt Archie was wondering why his lead was howling away. No sooner had he started to get a handle on himself did the radio crackle.  
"Hawk Leader, Hawk Leader this is Hawk Three. We've spotted something! Looks like a dozen or so Songies!" Pounder said. So the tactic worked Chase thought as he caught his breath to reply properly.

"Got me a range and bearing on these Songies?" He asked in between a few breaths.

"Our twelve...Bearing 340. Looks like they're maybe 15 miles out, Lead."

"Roger...Roger that Hawk Three."

Chase finally caught his breath and craned his neck to try and spot the aforementioned Songolians. He spotted black dots, barely distinguishable as the shapes of airplanes, and then sat back. His mind had totalled about 12 planes of an unknown type. In a formation that big they were likely fighters or some flavor of small bomber.

"Three, Four bring it back up here...Handles, looks like we've got something. Head towards me; looks like at least twelve of em."

"Can you tell what they are, Tail?" Handles asked almost immediately.

"We'll find out soon but I doubt they're ours. Mighty big group to be some planes that got lost."

Chase armed his six M2 machine guns and drew in a deep breath. He checked his gunsight, asked for the strength from above, and cleared his throat.

"Hawk Flight, follow me." He said.

As his pilots replied quickly and obediently Chase brought his fighter to the right and made a long, almost lazy, left turn to approach the unknown aircraft from their collective ten o' clock. Anything other than a head-on approach where they could all respond with their own guns. He constantly craned his neck and stared towards the shapes as they slowly became more and more distinguishable. His experience met with the constant looking over the identification charts. What he was seeing was likely a flight of Imperial Songolian Air Army Ki-84s, a Nakajima product know by him and other Oseans as the Frank. They appeared to be in a position to screen ahead of something, maybe Kates or Vals. He didn't want to wait around to find out.

"Talon Leader this is Hawk Leader...Looks like we got about a dozen Franks down there." He reported.

"Roger that Hawk Leader we're inbound...gonna try and make a call to the Sandy and see if she can send some help." Handles replied.

It would likely be some time before any aircraft from the _OFS Sand Island_ arrived. Chase stuffed his maps into a pouch to his left and looked at the aircraft in his flight.

"Handles I'm gonna dive on them, see if I can't scatter em. How far out are you?" He radioed.

"About two minutes, Tail."

"Roger that, your signal is "Buster"...Two follow me. Three and Four wait a second and then attack. Everybody drop tanks and stay loose."

Buster meant for them to hurry; bust their asses to reach the fight. Before he let the device go Chase checked his fuel gauges one final time and then let the device go. He switched to his internal tanks and cleared his throat. One last glance showed a few of the shapes, now colored dark green, lifting up. He saw the Ki-84s turn towards them and realized that they'd been spotted.

"Leave em dry, m'boys! Leave em dry!" The black-haired man called, echoing VF-5's battlecry.

Chase rolled his F6F to the left and brought "Steady Baby" into a steep dive. He drew out his bank to get above the Franks as they ascended before he dove so he'd be above them and then hopefully behind them as the distance closed. His flight was going to end up hitting the Songols head-on, but at this point it was too late to complain about that. Chase selected one of the Franks and chose what he guessed was the leader. Whitish-yellow lines started to zip across the sky. Chase kept calm and went inverted before he raised his nose and stitched a line of fifty-caliber bullets across the sky. The Frank became a blur as the two passed and Chase became more concerned with the G-Forces he felt. His vision shook and grayed before he came into a more stable flightpath. He hurried back upwards and searched for the Frank; it was in the middle of rolling upright and circling. Likely it was looking for him.

Chase kept low and applied extra care as he stayed below the Ki-84 and out of its sight. When he was behind the aircraft, he notched up the throttles' setting and made a quick slash upwards towards the Frank. The move worked and gave one of the bullets Chase sent up a very lucrative target: the fuel tank. The Ki-84 exploded and its remains sailed across the sky, gently diving down towards the sea below. Chase didn't even look as he leaned to the left and turned back towards where the formation had first been spotted. They weer now completely scattered, going in several directions whether solo or in a group. Chase spotted a single Ki-84 well above him.

He turned up and towards the Ki-84, which in turn rolled down towards him. Chase let loose another chattering burst from his guns as it passed over before he slowed his plane and turned to go after the Frank yer again. The two dove towards more dots coming to join the fight. Chase realized they were Hellcat, and only one other fourship was close enough. Chase fired a quick volley to try and scare the Songol pilot, then switched to his radio when that failed.

"Handles, Talon break! Bandit above you!" He called frantically.

The other F6Fs split apart, but the Frank remained undeterred, the green plane started to nose up and let off shots towards Handles's wingman: Lieutenant Dick Bellart. Chase watched in growing anger as he saw a few sparks break the Hellcat's blues and greys before the two planes passed over them.

"Talon Two's goin down, Talon 2's goin down!" Talon Three, one Charles Lang, called. Chase barely heard someone calling they say no chute, but he was too focused on the Songol as he was coming around for another pass. It didn't matter if Lang was gone; thee Songol had already gotten too many kills. The Frank turned to the left and forced Chase to slow again so he wouldn't undershoot. The Pratt and Whitney engine strained under the pressures of maneuvering and the desperate effort to keep itself running. Chase forced himself to give up the immediate chase and made a straight run while the Ki-84 was well ahead. They'd pushed to the northern border of the fight, as evidenced by the smoke trails around his seven o' clock. He looked that way several times and saw the bandit coming for him. Chase immediately turned towards the Songol and then dove when he saw flashes from the Frank's wings.

Compared to the Hellcat, the Frank carried nothing but 20mm cannons. Those shells wouldn't be kind if they hit, even to a beefy gal like the F6F. Chase pulled back up and checked for damage as he rse and then rolled back to the right to make a grab at the other plane's tail. The Ki-84 turned into his attack and swept left; Chase reversed and followed. The Songol went wide, and then came back, slowing and taking a shot at the Osean pilot. Chase pulled as tight as he dared and roared past the Ki-84 as it went by maybe a few dozen feet away. He snapped to the right and watched as the Ki-84 came back at him. He passed over it, guns ablaze, and then hurried back towards the fight. Chase gambled that if they hurried back to the fight the fear of other Hellcats latching on would keep him off balance. To Chase's quiet satisfaction, it looked like the Oseans were winning the day despite the numbers.

Chase broke to the left again, acting like he was trying to avoid some other Songol aircraft, and watched as the Ki-84 let go of him, likely to defend himself. Chase leapt on the opening and quickly reversed his move. He came at the Frank from its seven and gritted his teeth before blasting away with his M2s. Bits of the Frank's tail fell away before Chase pulled to the right and came around to hit the Frank again. The Ki-84, in a momentary panic, was diving to the right and towards the waters closer to the Shimoji Islands. Chase pushed for the knockout blow. He perforated the Nakajima's wings and passed over the mortally wounded plane as its engine started to cough. Six rounds of .50 BMG had stabbed her. Inside the pilot tried to wrestle with his plane, but his day was done. He looked up as the F6F passed by and for a second expected the Osean to shoot him up while he was trapped in his cockpit. Nothing ever came, though.

The plane passed by in a blur, leaving the Songol alive to contend with fate as he tried to escape his machine. Even though the Osean had come close to hitting him, the aircraft had been almost indistinguishable in shape. The only thing the Songol pilot distinctly saw was the smirking strawberry blonde curled up on the nose and the words "Steady Baby" beneath her image. The rest of the plane was quickly on its way towards another Ki-84 as it ascended towards the ceiling of the fight, M2s chattering again. Another Victim had fallen to the Banshees of VF-5.


	2. Heavenly Helena

_Heavenly Helena_

 _December 17, 1944_

 _Somewhere Over West Belka_

The snow-covered landscape was nothing more than a blanket spotted by greens and greys when there were breaks in the clouds. The winters that covered the northern Osean Continent had come right on time, uncaring as to the war currently raging in this part of the world. It would likely motion to the other parts of the world caught up in "Great World War" and ask why it should spare one piece of the globe. First Lieutenant Austin Walker, "Sheriff" around his fellow pilots, was bundled up as tightly as he could be against the cold. The Akerson Plains could get cold during the winter, but he'd never been 20,000 Feet above them. The spindly giant of a man was by no means built for that kind of weather, either. His brother was getting the exact opposite: sweltering in the heat of the Southe Verusean continent. Austin chuckled for himself; he came in one of a few shapes Walker men seemed to come in: short and stocky, tall and lanky, or as average a build as you could ever get. Not that Helena seemed to mind. To her, he was still that wide-eyed pilot whose cool confidence had been broken by some evening attire and a few songs.

The pilot looked out of the left side of his P-51D Mustang's canopy at the B-17Gs cruising along below. The Flying Fortresses were bound for Belkan factories in the Edelstein River Valley and Austin's unit, the 552nd Fighter Squadron, had been sent along to swat away the Luftwaffe. The Belkan Empire's air arm still had plenty of teeth, even as its core lands were being invaded. Goering's lot would be on its way anytime now to take over for the errant bursts of flak the bombers had been receiving over the past ten minutes. Seven other blue-tailed P-51s were placed in pairs around the sixteen bombers, every one waiting for the first sign of any plane bearing the yellow and black shield of the Luftwaffe. In the meantime Austin remained level-headed and loose. He didn't like to tense up and get too rigid up here. Especially not when it felt like the end was coming. He had a life he wanted to live, a woman he wanted to marry, and a plane he fancied keeping airworthy.

The woman was mad at him, though. It wasn't looking like they'd get time together for the holidays. She'd been calmed rather easily when that confidence she'd shattered came back and turned her into the blushing one. As soon as he had anything that looked like leave, he'd double-time it back to Sarsfield. In the meantime he'd take it one day and one fight at a time.

He looked towards his flight ead, one Captain Jamie Jones, who was nestled out ahead and to his right by about a mile.

"Still awake, Shogun?" Austin drawled.

"Awake and cold as fuck. How are you not frozen yet, Sheriff?" Jaime replied from his cockpit.

"Ah actually wear the long johns, my friend."

"Bah the hell with those; they make you too hot. You know what happens when you sweat in cold weather, Sheriff?"

"Ah can either sweat to death or freeze to it. Ah chose my poison, Shogun."

"Yes but why should someone choose a poison?"

"Cause it'll be around no matter what."

"Alright Alright you two, stop acting like a couple of old ladies." Captain Richard Valentine, the flight lead for today's patrol, snapped. It was briefly met by more fooling around.

"Might you repeat that in the King's Lenish, sir? Can't have ya Oseans gunking up and besmirching something of the empire's ya know?" First Lieutenant Samuel Crossman chuckled, faking the best Lenish accent he could.

"Hey hey hey take that shit to the cockpit of a Spitfire or somethin!" Austin called.

"Enough from all of you!" Rosy Valentine roared.

If anyone besides Austin had nervously chuckled, they'd done it outside of their softly spoken and obedient "Yes Lead" calls.

Austin went back to searching for any signs of the Luftwaffe, then checked his maps to better orient himself as to where threats would come from. They had three major airfields to worry about at Tolstein, Kleiner Hoof and at Hornstad. Each could put up a lot of planes even if they were going to be hit today. His leg started itching and as if he sensed it, Jaime radioed him.

"Hornet Four this is Hornet Three, that leg needing a scratch yet?" He asked, tension in his voice.

"Yeah yeah, needs a little one." Austin replied, tending to the sensation near his knee.

From his plane Jamie glanced down at the thickening clouds. Only God knew the reason behind giving Austin that little tic, but he'd learned to trust superstitious things like it rather than risk getting killed. The sky above them was clear, making it hard for anyone but a huge formation to get any use out of an attack from above. If someone was close, then they were down below where they had cover. Jaime had never pinned the Belkans to subscribe to the suicidal bravery the Songols had; they were too knightley for that kind of behavior.

"Roger that...Hornet Lead Hornets Three and Four are requesting to go down low and peek under the clouds." Jaime replied after a long pause to think.

"Roger Shogun, go for it...Hornets Five and Six sweep over Manta Flight and take up Shogun and Sheriff's perch, copy?" Rosy ordered.

"Roger that, Lead." First Lieutenant Jean LeBoudin radioed.

Austin made sure his straps were tight and followed Shogun in a dive to the right, nosing over and swooping down towards the clouds below. The two P-51s, Heavenly Helena and Bushido Betrayer, swept down towards the puffy white layer below. They kept their throttles back and their power low to avoid getting stuck in a dive. The two planes disappeared into the white; Austin almost held his breath as they did. Then, off to his left he saw something. A dark flash went by and upwards. Moving in the total opposite direction of the Osean. He popped out of the clouds only to be greeted by the sight of about half a dozen Fw 190A-8s rushing by.

"Fuck!" The pilot yelled as he pulled up.

The Belkan planes rushed by, a few firing off rounds from their 13mm machine guns but too late to do anything to the lone Mustang. Austin whirled his head back and forth as he pulled up and went to the left, looking for Jamie or any other 190s. After the second of surprise it occurred to him that there were at least six Focke Wulfs rising up. The pilot keyed his radio and assumed that, for now, he was alone. He also ditched his two external fuel tanks.

"Hornet Lead, Hornet Lead...Bandits, bandits below yah! At least seven!" He called over the radio.

"More like a dozen; where are you, Sheriff?" Jamie asked. So he was still alive.

As Austin radioed his position and his intent to soar back up into the sky to chase the Belkan fighters, the radio started to crowd with calls and chatter. The "Fighting Furies" of the 552nd swept into action and about a thousand different gears started working throughout the formation. Procedures, mindsets, last-minute checks and personal rituals. Inside their B-17s, bomber crews nervously waited behind their M2 machine guns as the enemy fighters came up. Austin and Jamie burst from the clouds after them as their fellow Mustangs scattered and swirled down to engage. Austin heard someone say "Lop their nuts off, guys!" but didn't recognize the voice. Besides he was far too concerned about the starting fight. Austin spotted a pair of Fw 190s arcing up towards the lead bombers in the formation and turned to chase them. He hoped the gunners in the big plane would recognize him; the senior crews had long assured that trigger-happy rookies would not be a problem.

Still Austin kept alert and wary as he tried to get the lead he needed for his six M2s. He wasn't able to get it before the three planes passed the B-17, which was now trailing smoke. Austin followed the left Fw 190 as it went left and started to come down on the formation again. Taking the best angle he was probably going to get, Austin squeezed the trigger in the hopes at least scaring the Belkan. The 190 rolled tight and dove Austin spotted another P-51 striking at the diving 190. Austin broke to the right to avoid a collision as Second Lieutenant Robert Williams passed by the Fw 190 and went on.

"Hornet Two, form up on Hornet Four!" Austin snapped.

"Roger that, Four!" The young pilot called.

The Fw 190 leveled out and reversed its turn, Austin slowing and swinging his nose towards the sky ahead of the Belkan fighter tracers crossed the sky in steady intervals as Austin slid back behind the enemy fighter and spotted a few sparks. He kept up the fire until part of the Fw 190's tail fell away. Robert called out another pair of 190s coming from the direction of the formation and the two P-51s broke, Austin going to the left and Robert hurrying upwards. The two planes made a single pass at Austin before they turned to pursue him. The Osean pushed his throttles forward and turned to try and get around and behind them. He spotted the silvery glint of Robert's P-51 above the three planes.

"Slow and come down on those Jerries, Fuzz!" Austin shouted as he looked back.

Immediately, Robert fell back down and hammered away with his six machine guns. The Fw 190s broke, but not before one was raked around the cockpit by .50 BMG bullets. Robert tilted and dove after the other with Austin diving to back him up. Robert pulled up and went level before circling around as the Fw 190 dove into the clouds. Austin pulled to the lef and made a much larger circle. As he came around he saw the Fw 190 coming through the clouds, guns chattering away at the rookie pilot. Austin aimed himself at the Belkan and fired a burst to draw the bandit's attention.

"Two, Four, Hornet Three is coming in from above! Heads up!"

"Coming in, Four. Fuzz, get outta there!" Jamie radioed.

As Jaime rolled in and Robert broke from the fight. Austin pushed the Fw 190 back up towards the bombers Austin avoiding giving direct chase and instead made a pass at the Belka as he rose, which invited the man to fall after him and give chase. Austin went left, then slowed and broke right to shake him, tracers floating pass from the B-17s above. The Osean pilot turned his Mustang to the left and slowed. The Fw 190 passed over him and then dove towards the clouds again. Austin quickly throttled up and pursued, determined to prevent him from getting down there again. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jamie settling into a support position but paid that little mind. Suddenly as the clouds were mere feet from the Focke Wulf's belly, it shot back up. Austin almost went through the clouds, but followed the enemy plane back up. Jamie went through the clouds and fell behind.

The two fighters weaved across the sky, marking the sky with errant patterns. The two planes were almost mirrors of each other, bringing the factors down to the most basic things like position and pilot skill. They weaved back and forth again and again, slowly closing in on each other. Austin keet his finger against the trigger but didn't squeeze. Not until he was closer. The fight was far away now, and Jaime was hurrying to catch up. The Belkan kept weaving, and then made a sudden left. Austin cut the throttles back and hauled his airplane to the left. The two planes went upwards and over the bombers, then back down behind them , drawing more fire all the way. Austin shouted at the bombers several times to stop shooting but otherwise kept ignoring it. The Fw 190 turned to the right and Austin immediately traded his built-up energy to slow and follow his target Belkan started moving to dash out of the bottom of the Osean's forward field of vision, but Austin pressed in and kept moving his nose.

"Alright Jerry, hope that parachute works." Austin mumbled under his breath.

He jammed back the trigger and let out a heavy, shuddering breath. It almost felt as if he'd been about to punch himself in the stomach. He stared across the sky and watched as the Fw 190 started to slow, pieces falling off of it as the plane was reduced to a useless ball of parts and liquids. Austin hit the throttles and aimed his plane to pass by the falling Focke Wolfe.

As he did, the pilot noted the Belkan look towards him, and then salute. On the nose of his 190 were three rows of kill markings, almost as many as Austin had on his P-51. There was also what looked like a family crest on the Belkan plane. The Osean hesitated a minute, and then returned the salute. Alright, he'd let it be that way. One pilot to another, one man beating another fair and square. That was worth an exchange of respect.


	3. Schlag Zuerst Zu!

_Schlag Zuerst Zu!_

 _March 22, 1940_

 _Somewhere Over Rectan-Belka_

Hauptmann (Captain) Ernst Reins was at just above 75 feet off the ground, sticking to the rural areas away from the final few cities before the Belka-Wielvakia border. His green and gray Bf 109E was fully armed, fully fueled and partially shrouded in the dawn light. Ernst used markers on the ground, namely intersections and major landmarks, to guide himself through the dark. The rest of the six-plane flight was spread out over several miles, each plane on its own for now to avoid getting jumped before they hit the border by some nervous Wielvakian pilot who figured out they were descending upon the country by accident. Luftflotte 2's command didn't want any delays on this one and neither did the Oberstleutnant (Colonel) of JG 126. The "Silver Lances", as it was said in Osean or Lenish, was tasked to help prevent the Wielvakian Air Force from getting off the ground.

Their target was the airbase near Płaskorama, which housed two of the WAF's nine squadrons of Hawker Hurricane Mk Is. The Lenish-built fighters represented the greatest threat to the Belkan push into the country. After that, the next best thing they had were a fleet of woefully outclassed but numerous P.11s. The 109s were to either strafe them while they were still on the ground of shoot them down as soon as they got airborne. The were also directed to destroy the base's vital organs itself, or at least what they could with cannons and machine guns. At the same time, six Ju 88A-4s were due to hit the nearby town's steel plant. Ernst looked down, referenced his navigation aides again, and felt his skin tingle; they were over the border now. He turned on his radio and cleared his throat.

"Silber Leader to flight, close into pairs and proceed to Storm One." He radioed.

Silbers Two through Six sent their acknowledgments and started to close in. Leutnant Klaus Von Mehner, Silber Two, settled into place behind and left of the Captain. They stayed at their current altitude and speed while the rest of their flight burst up towards the sky. Ernst peered ahead and looked for any signs of Wielvakian fighters that were airborne. So far there was still nothing. They'd achieved total surprise; even with one of the region's biggest armies at their doorstep, the Wielvaks hadn't done a damned thing to stand their ground. Ernst felt insulted, and baffled. Not even the dumbest politicians could be this blind. It had to be them, in the end; the soldiers, sailors and airmen of the country he was over were trained to think tactically. He looked up and saw flak bursts darkening small bits of the sky.

"Silber Leader to flight, any sign of the WAF?" he asked.

"Negative sir, I don't see anything." Silber Three, one Hauptmann Otto Frenkel, reported. His wingman, Leutnant (Lieutenant) Rolf Weilsel, had the same to say.

The lack of an immediate air threat could be grounds for either concern or satisfaction, but that didn't matter now. Ernst was calm and alert, feeling very much like he had towards the end of his time in the Auerlian Civil War when he'd been a member of the Auerlian Knights. He felt that same cool, aware state of mind where he felt like he could detect anything. His eyes swept back and forth, breaking the pattern only to sweep his glance across a picture of an Auerlian woman dancing. He kept his eyes away so Maria wouldn't thaw that cool. He selected the single 250-kilogram bomb and set his two wing tanks free. He spotted a clearing through the front of his boxy canopy and recognized the low lights and general shape of an airfield. The home of the I/133 Fighter Squadron seemed to bloom before him. On the far side, he saw brief flashes; AA guns. _Too late now..._

"Silber Flight, attack!" Ernst howled.

As the airfield's details became apparent, The Belkan pilot noted that there were several Hurricanes rolling about, a pair of which were hurrying down the runway. Ernst ignored them for a minute and aimed his plane at the airfield's main fuel dump. With a press of a button on his stick, he let the single bomb go and pulled off to the right. For now he needed to take care of the aircraft still on the ground. A few Hurricanes could be dispatched; the whole squadron could not.

"Silber Two, break!" He ordered.

Ernst pulled the stick back and zoomed away from the growing explosion. Shell bursts from the Bofors AA guns below dotted the sky with black puffs in a near instant, pausing only as the crews shoved more shells into the feeds. Ernst spiraled up, looking over both shoulders for the Hurricanes that'd taken off, and caught a glimpse of someone else's bomb washing a pair of hangars in fire and shrapnel. He spotted two of the aircraft banking around to the left towards the Belkan attack's left flank. Ernst selected his MG 131s and nosed over to the right, swooping back down above the remaining Silber aircraft that were coming in to bomb the airfield. The two Hawker products made a single pass as Silber Five, Hauptmann Kriegler, was breaking left into them. Ernst triggered his guns and started to roll inverted to follow them.

The two Hurricanes broke apart, one turning to face Kriegler while the other went up to foil Ernst's attack. The Belkan smirked a little; the pilot in the enemy plane was hinting at skill. Ernst was glad; he had no intention of mowing down a bunch of hapless lemmings. The two planes passed each other and the Hurricane twisted above the 109 to swoop back down on it. Ernst broke to the right and came back to the left as the Hurricane pulled from its dive and turned into the oncoming Belkan. Ernst struck at him aggressive and fired, but his bullets went over the spine of the Hurricane. The two crossed paths and the Hurricane gladly grabbed the offensive position. Unshaken, Ernst pushed away and above, grabbing for maneuvering room and distance. His Bf 109 was able to outrun the Hurricane with ease.

"Silber Two, what is your status?" He asked as he went to the left.

"A little dinged, but I believe I am okay, Rentier." Klaus replied.

"Good good, now get over here."

"Understood, Herr Hauptmann."

Ernst couldn't help a snort at his friend's penchant for snark even as they were in the middle of a fight. Not ignorant of the Hurricane swatting at him with its four machine guns, Ernst dove into the attack and stared up out the top of his canopy at the ascending Hurricane. With more speed, he could position himself faster than the Hurricane was moving. The WAF pilot lowered his nose to follow the Belkan and soon stopped firing as it became apparent his bullets weren't getting anywhere near the Belkan fighter. The Hurricane settled into a dive to gain some more momentum while Ernst swept towards the airfield. He looked back to see if he'd lost the Hurricane, then looked forward and, on instinct, pulled back the trigger on his stick. Beneath him, the last intact Hurricanes were spinning their engines, trying to get organized and airborne. Ernst made it brief before he pulled away again and ascended, the Hurricane in hot pursuit.

The two planes pushed to the northeast of the field, towards Płaskorama. Ernst turned away from the fight to avoid leading the Hurricane towards the Ju 88s and rose up again. He considered cutting the throttles and breaking hard, but he didn't know what this Wielvak might pull. Instead Ernst stayed out ahead and weighed his options on how to grab the offensive position from the Hurricane. A stalemate; he'd never imagined such a thing would happen. Despite his inner pride he saw few ways to break it. The man turned to the left and scanned the skies for the shape of another Bf 109. There were several more Hurricanes than he'd initially thought were in the sky, but the radio had remained free of frantic calls or anything suggesting someone had been shot down. It didn't look like the WAF pilots were too organized, either. He saw perhaps one pair of the Hurricanes together. They were locked in a near-perfect stalemate? Ernst could tell, even as he rose towards the sky again.

"Silber Leader has a bandit on his tail. Is there anyone available to assist?" He called.

"This is Silber Three, where are you Lead?" Rolf asked.

"Above the airfield, Three. Ascending as we speak."

"Okay...okay I see you. Hang on, Herr Hauptmann!"

To make it a bit easier for his subordinate, Ernst eased back the stick and made a steady loop, going ever higher into the sky as he ran from the grasp of the Hurricane. The WAF fighter was pushing as hard as it could to reach him, aiming to cut off the Messerschmidt as it dove downwards. Tracers flashed by the Belkan's plane, briefly by the edges of his wings. Ernst felt the cool thaw for a second as he wondered if the next rounds would stab through his wings, but felt himself cool again when he heard nothing akin to hammers striking metal. Ernst pulled back on the stick and brought his nose to bear. He selected his 20mm cannon in the nose, assured it would finish the job in a few shots. He spotted another Bf 109 at the upper edge of his vision and stayed low while Rolf came down on the Wielvakian fighter. Ernst finally throttled back and pulled to the right, pushing his nose almost all the way up before sliding it down to the right towards the Hurricane as it broke defensively. He saw Rolf turning back into the WAF fighter and stopped him before he could shoot.

"He is mine, Three!" Ernst interrupted

Grudgingly Rolf pulled away and turned around to search for another aircraft tyo prey upon. The Hurricane brought out its turning advantage to foil the first attack by Rolf, but ended up pushing across the front quadrant of Silber Leader's aircraft. The Belkan triggered his Mk 108 and punched through the sky, but failed to get the angle needed. He saw the eagle's head against the red shield of the WAF atop the green and gray camouflage. He turned to follow the Hurricane through its left cross and found the Hurricane reversing again and throttling up to extend towards the outer edge of his guns' effective range. Ernst turned his speed advantage around to keep up and followed the fleeing Hurricane as it pushed towards the skies. The Hurricane snapped to the right and pushed its nose down to flee towards the inner lands of its homeland. Ernst shot past him and rolled to pursue him. The Hurricane snapped left briefly, but Ernst reacted fast enough now. He saw a single shell punch through the base of the Hawker product's tail. The Hurricane rolled and swung down into a dive again, its pilot apparently shaken.

Ernst cautiously followed the enemy plane down as it tried to get low, where men on the ground would have a better chance of engaging the pursuing 109. Ernst didn't see any flashes or tracers, nor did he care. Cool sweat trickled down from his dark-brown hair and down his neck as he set the forward path of the Hurricane in his gunsight. He drew in a breath and triggered the 108 again. The weapon thumped away and the Hurricane flew right into the stream of fire. Parts of the machine exploded in puffs of metal and dust, then the back half of the machine caught fire. Ernst pulled away as the Hurricane started to gain speed while it glided down towards the trees. He circled around to the left and peered down as the wreckage of the fighter plowed into the ground. There was no sign of a pilot.

"Silber Five, Silber Five bail out!" He heard Klaus bark.

"The bastard is going up to your left, Two! Turn into him and pursue him!" Silber Six, piloted by Leutnant Stefan Müller, called.

Without looking that way, Ernst bored in on the airfield again. He searched the sky for the other Hurricane and spotted it as Stefan and Klaus pushed up after it. He then noticed that two more Hurricanes were pressing after the Luftwaffe fighters.

"Silber Two, Silber Six, break! Bandits at your seven!" He snapped over the airwaves.

As Ernst looked forward again before he turned, he saw a shape pass behind the control tower. Another Hurricane appeared out from behind the structure; Ernst slowed and turned hard left and fired his cannon several times, grazing the WAF fighter's right wing. He passed behind the Hurricane, throttled up again and started turning to come back at the bandit, angling his turn to try and avoid draining all of his energy. He passed the Hurricane nearly head-on and watched it pass by on his left. He noted the unit insignia and realized that it wasn't the local squadron's. Reinforcements...he keyed his radio and cleared his throat.

"Gelb Leader this is Silber Leader, requesting assistance. It appears that the Wielvakians have pushed their Hurricanes to the front." He radioed.

Across the border, 12 more Bf 109s of JG 23, the "Yellow-tailed Geese", pushed their own Messerschmitts towards the growing fight. Both sides were committing their main bodies now as the sun rose above the countryside. Like the blacl eagle that served as its symbol, fighters and bombers nullified the border, looking more like swarms of grasshoppers than planes. Below, stoic Wielvakian border guards watched as the planes passed over in flights, each bearing the symbol of their northwestern neighbor. The Luftwaffe had come to call Wielvakia's number, and with it the world was about to be plunged into the rage of battle.


	4. The Desert Hawk

_The Desert Hawk_

 _February 22, 1942_

 _Somewhere Over the Sultanate of South Shamlak_

Flight Lieutenant Pieter Van Straaten was a man who craved adventure. It didn't usually didn't matter what kind of adventure it was; he needed to keep moving and keep riding that edge. War or not, world events or not he pursued what he wanted to pursue. He had that wily, toothy grin and curly blonde hair that reflected his desire to remain in the shadow of danger. The latter had been chopped down, though, and manicured into a style that fit Lenish Royal Air Force regulations. He'd also traded a motorcycle for a Kittyhawk Mk. IA this time. If it hadn't been for the growing scope of the war, Pieter wouldn't have cared about whether or not Belka wanted to expand its empire. He'd always figured that their borders from Fato to Osea, Recta to Sapin would never be enough but that they'd never try anything too bold.. Sooner rather than later he'd also found that it was better if the Belkans didn't rule the world when they did try it.

He pushed his Kittyhawk along the desert landscape, dipping and rising to maneuver with the massive dunes in this part of the world. He could feel the centreline tank and the two 100-pound bombs with each move he made. The plane would struggle a little to ascend and then drop pretty abruptly when he tried to ease it down. His eyes widened a bit in interest each time he did either. The pilot's eyes ceaselessly searched the desert's emptiness, looking for the slightest sign of movement. He and the three other fighters of 717 Squadron, The Fennecs, were deep in Belkan-Shamlak territory now, which meant that someone had to be out there, heading south towards the forward positions of the 11th Army. Pieter decided that he'd go this way for another few minutes, and then press more towards the west. It didn't matter what his flight lead said; they were out here to tear up some Jerries and Pieter was determined to do that.

He glanced back to his left and saw the Kittyhawk of Flight Lieutenant Gabriel Olivia bobb over several particularly high dunes before going back down towards the ground. Pieter imitated the Skully's move to a degree, almost as if to return some sort of signal. He looked around again and frowned. Still nothing but desert; the pilot keyed his radio and cleared his throat.

"Fox Leader this is Fox Three, still no sightings...we sure there's Jerries out here?" He asked.

"We are, but we still need to check. Stop complaining and keep your eyes scanning, Fox Three." Squadron Leader Bruce Oxton replied in a terse tone.

Pieter grimaced and was about ready to reply with a few snarky words in his native tongue, but stowed it. The man was right and if he spent all his time arguing with the man next thing he knew they'd been in the midst of a flight of Luftwaffe 109s. The pilot craned his neck and sat up as high as he could against the back of his seat. Even then he saw nothing but beige and various shades of brown. He rose up again to clear a wide gorge and looked down over his shoulder. The pilot then made a quick circle, pushing up a bit higher for a better view. He stared down and saw movement. After a second he realized it was a line of camels, likely accompanied by one of the nomadic groups of the area. As he swooped down and banked left he saw Gabriel's plane. The other Kittyhawk swooped over and settled off his left wing.

"Spot something, Ataata?" The man asked.

"Buncha nomads, Skull." Pieter replied as the two Kittyhawks resumed their course to the northwest.

Pieter checked his map and noted that they were nearing a popular route for Belkan supplies moving south. The Afrikaner was banking on that being the place where they'd hit paydirt. Pieter pushed the throttles up and loosened up a little before he selected his six machine guns. When he was closer to the route he signalled to Gabriel and pointed to the west. After giving their leader a heads up, Pieter and his wingman pushed due west. Pieter stayed low until he reached the last major rise before a long, flat valley. The two Kittyhawks raced nearly parallel to one another, rapidly reestablishing their mile separation. When the slope went upwards the pushed up it and burst over the crest. The two planes dipped their planes in opposite directions to check both sides. He saw movement to the north and turned towards it.

"I might have somethin, Skull! Three o'clock!" He called.

And oh did he ever. Pieter almost immediately noted figures scattering around formation of . 222 armored cars and Opel Blitz trucks. Pieter switched to his bombs before he rose up and made a right-hand turn to circle around. He slowed and aligned his plane with the row of vehicles below.

"Ek sê, Fox Lead! Whole buncha Jerries down below us!" He called.

Gabriel went high while Pieter pushed across the convoy, leaving the two bombs in his wake. He ditched his centerline tank and switched to his guns, going nearly vertical to get a look at what the two bombs had done. Black smoke swirled together with the sand over flames where vehicles and men had once been. At least one had made a direct hit, and the second had either clipped something or landed just long enough of the convoy to do something. Pieter looked forward and rolled, smoothly and carefully repositioning himself parallel with the ground. Gabriel had landed his two bombs somewhere in the middle of the convoy, landing one long and the other right next to several trucks. The two Kittyhawks circled while the convoy below burned. Pieter switched to his guns and considered whether or not they should lay more hurt on the bastards.

"Pieter looked out and around for Foxes One and Two and spotted shapes in the distance, coming from the...north. Pieter squinted his eyes against the glaring desert sun and stayed above the incoming shapes.

"Fox Lead, are you and two approaching us from the north?' He radioed. The reply was immediate.

"That's a negative, Fox Three."

"Then Skull, break off the attack. We've got bandits."

Pieter came around and rose before diving at the growing shapes, straining to see what they were. As he closed in he realized the aircraft were twin-engined types. One lumbered towards him and started to climb albeit slowly. By now he'd concluded it was a pair of Bf 110Ds, likely coming to the rescue of the convoy. Foolhardy bastards to take on a bunch of smaller and nimbler Kittyhawks, Pieter thought. He swept his nose to the right and fired several shots at the other Bf 110 to keep it down. He easily made it out of the way and turned back into the attacking fighters. He saw dark objects falling from one of the machines; bombs, it seemed. The Afrikaner stayed out of the reach of the rear gun on the climbing 110. He triggered his guns several times as he climbed behind and above the Bf 110. He caught impacts just before the Belkan fighter-bomber disappeared behind his nose section. Pieter broke to the right, mindful of the errant tracers zipping past him. He went right and made a wide circle to put distance between him and the Messerschmidts He saw the lead Bf 110 turning to either try and follow him or run from the fight.

"Fox Four, where are ya?" He drawled.

"Above the Jerries; got the trailing guy." Gabriel replied.

Pieter let his wingman make a diving attack on the aforementioned plane and moved in when he pulled away. Pieter went up and dove at the Bf 110, leading it while it turned and placing another burst of rounds into the machine path. He kept leading the plane and firing until he saw one of the propellers shatter. The opposite engine belched fire and secured Pieter's 17th kill. He pulled away and circled upwards again, searching for Gabriel or the other 110. As he twisted around he saw two shapes high above the sky. For a second Pieter wondered if they were Foxes One and Two, but as the planes nosed down he noted they weren't Kittyhawks. He squinted more but was interrupted when their noses twinkled. He broke to the right as two Bf 109Gs passed by. Pieter turned and rolled over into a dive, pursuing the two Belkan fighters as they came down and leveled out near the desert floor. The two planes split; Pieter took the lead plane.

"Fox Four be advised; we got a couple a blerry Jerry 109s." He radioed.

"Roger that Fox Three." Gabriel replied.

Pieter followed his prey to the left and moved to keep him pinned against the terrain. If the Bf 109 got altitude, room to maneuver, then he'd either have to gamble or run. Pieter wasn't very fond of running from the other guy. He lead the 109 and fired several bursts from his .50 calibers, hoping to hit the Bf 109 soon. He looked back and saw the other Messerschmidt snaking towards him. Pieter broke to the left and started circling around to counter.

"Skull, the hell are yah?" He asked.

"Coming in...be advised we've got at least two more 109s...Fox Lead?" Gabriel radioed.

"We'll intercept them, Four. Go help Three!" Oxton snapped.

Pieter found himself almost nose-to-nose with the Bf 109, He jammed the triggers back and clipped the Belkan's tail with his bullets. Pieter titled his Kittyhawk to the right to avoid clipping the bandit with his wing. Pieter dove down and hurriedly reversed his course so he was again chasing the Belkan fighter. He looked up to see it trying to flee and decided to catch it before it got too high. He pushed the throttles up and braced himself against the seat as his fighter roared upwards. He clenched his teeth and drew in a breath before balancing his Kittyhawk a little more. The aircraft was slowly going inside the Bf 109's turn as his machine guns chattered away, tracers marking the progression of the bullets. Pieter could barely see the Belkan by the time he rolled and was forced to dive back for the Kittyhawk's realm of strength. He caught a glimpse of the Bf 109 trailing black smoke as it started to tumble down from the upper reaches of the sky. Before he could reach it, though, the pilot heard unsettling scrapes and felt his plane shudder. As he rolled upright the hydraulic fluid gauge in his cockpit started to fall. Pieter hit it a few time and then looked around. He caught a glimpse of the other Bf 109 and yanked the stick to the left, slowing to foil the paid descent of the Belkan fighter. Tracers flashed by and one chipped at the top of the canopy. He tried to turn back and at least fire but the Kittyhawk reacted sluggishly.

Pieter looked all over for the Bf 109 or another Kittyhawk, and spotted Gabriel ascending to pursue the Belka. The Afrikaner cheered him on over the radio while he tended to the situation in his plane. The hydraulics were quickly dying, but he couldn't tell what the damage was. It didn't seem to matter, though; the Kittyhawk was in rough shape and an attempt to level out didn't work for very long. Pieter pulled back the throttles and thankfully got what he wanted out of that. He then tried to turn to the south and barely got that one. The pilot, growing angry and started to think more in terms of how to control his descent, decided now was a good time to ditch...or land. As the plane buffeted against trying to go nose up. He finally gave up and took a hand off the throttle to open the canopy. He unbuckled himself and started to stand up. The plane was coming down faster and faster. The man looked down at the ground and saw he needed to get moving.

"Ahh kak…" He growled as he gripped the parachute's ripcord.

The pilot's escape route was out of the left of the plane and into the open air where the wing was clear of the rear stabilizers. He nearly fell out of his cockpit, and then was pulled from the plane when the unheld stick was free to fall whichever way it chose. Pieter pulled the ripcord as she started to tumble and braced as his parachute deployed and pulled him to a very abrupt standstill. He looked around and drew in several loud breaths. He looked up and saw he had a good chute, then realized that the impact had pulled off his leather helmet. He looked down and watched his Kittyhawk falling down to the desert and its death. The pilot started slowly getting his bearings. The convoy was now far behind him, which gave him hope that he was further south than he'd first been. Still, that meant that he was closer to the lines, and even if he snuck through the lines and all the Belkans waiting out there...he still had to hope he wasn't shot by his own side. Pieter sought distraction from that thought as the ground started to come up at a faster rate.

His training and instincts carried him through the final meters. Pieter braced himself but the landing still hurt; the dune he hit felt like concrete. He tumbled a little before he stopped and struggled to his feet. His parachute tugged in the gentle breeze until he wrenched his survival knife free and started cutting it's he did, he heard a steady droning and looked up. His eyes were drawn towards the location of his destroyed Kittyhawk, and the Bf 109 circling over it. Pieter scowled and considered drawing his Webley. He watched the 109 circle once more and felt a deep sense of indignation and an equally deep stain on his pride. _Verdommnt Jerries..._


End file.
